“Dolores!  My child, my little girl!” he cried, in a broken voice.

Then he sat down, as it overcome, clasped his hands on the hilt of his sword, and rested his forehead against them, rocking himself with a barely perceptible motion.  In twenty years, Dolores had never understood, not even guessed, that the hard man, ever preaching of wholesome duty and strict obedience, always rebuking, never satisfied, ill pleased almost always, loved her with all his heart, and looked upon her as the very jewel of his soul.  She guessed it now, in a sudden burst of understanding; but it was so new, so strange, that she could not have told what she felt.  There was at best no triumph at the thought that, of the two, he had broken down first in the contest.  Pity came first, womanly, simple and kind, for the harsh nature that was so wounded at last.  She came to his side, and laid one hand upon his shoulder, speaking softly.

“I am very, very sorry that I have hurt you,” she said, and waited for him to speak, pressing his shoulder with a gentle touch.

He did not look up, and still he rocked himself gently, leaning on his sword.  The girl suffered, too, to see him suffering so.  A little while ago he had been hard, fierce, angry, cruel, threatening her with a living death that had filled her with horror.  It had seemed quite impossible that there could be the least tenderness in him for any one—­least of all for her.

“God be merciful to me,” he said at length in very low tones.  “God forgive me if it is my fault—­you do not love me—­I am nothing to you but an unkind old man, and you are all the world to me, child!”

He raised his head slowly and looked into her face.  She was startled at the change in his own, as well as deeply touched by what he said.  His dark cheeks had grown grey, and the tears that would not quite fall were like a glistening mist under the lids, and almost made him look sightless.  Indeed, he scarcely saw her distinctly.  His clasped hands trembled a little on the hilt of the sword he still held.

“How could I know?” cried Dolores, suddenly kneeling down beside him.  “How could I guess?  You never let me see that you were fond of me—­or I have been blind all these years—­”

“Hush, child!” he said.  “Do not hurt me any more—­it must have been my fault.”

He grew more calm, and though his face was very grave and sad, the natural dark colour was slowly coming back to it now, and his hands were steady again.  The girl was too young, and far too different from him, to understand his nature, but she was fast realizing that he was not the man he had always seemed to her.

“Oh, if I had only known!” she cried, in deep distress.  “If I had only guessed, I would have been so different!  I was always frightened, always afraid of you, since I can remember—­I thought you did not care for us and that we always displeased you—­how could we know?”